Gloria
by Periacta
Summary: Satine and why God is mean.


A/N: And so I return from my long hiatus away from writing and I've switched locales. Rocky Horror, though I grieve for it, is gone; probably for good. But, I've rekindled my love affair of bohemia (jumps on the table and starts singing "La Vie Boheme.") which has taken Moulin Rouge as it's host (and, consequently, Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor, those sexy, sexy people.but we won't go into that). So anyway, after watching Moulin Rouge for the 8,000,000th time, I dredged up this little old thing from the depths of my writing file, and.Voici! ( That's French. I mean. "Here it is."  
  
Writing. Writing writing writingwritingwriting.writing. Always at it with that damn typewriter! And, like all other writers, he was trying to pen what he had yet to experience, to feel what had not been felt. A forged encounter with false people in a phony world. People, humans, never emoted as writers thought they should. We don't express enough, we hold it in, we never cry. Christian expected too much from the world, he expected too much from himself, from us. Christian, in all his wisdom, his all-knowingness, was laughably naive. So was I, but I knew more than to pretend I knew the world, to imagine I knew people. I had no more experience with feeling anything than he. My mothers did, though. I had no idea that the love that my mothers had for each other was unacceptable. I knew that they loved each other, and me, wholeheartedly. I didn't even know, I still don't, which one was my "real" mother, who had given birth to me. It didn't matter, really, and I think they meant for it to be that way. I was happy, then, absorbing some of the passion my mothers felt for one another, for me. 'God doesn't like it,' they said, when they took me away. Of course. God hates my mothers, but loves having a child taken away from them, sent to some distant relative of one of them ( "Call me uncle," he said. I never did.). God doesn't mind when this relative touches this girl, takes her into his bed while she's still young enough for imaginary friends and tea parties. God must have loved watching this girl develop into a whore. This Almighty Being of Everlasting Love and Forgiveness must really enjoy slowly killing (yes, Harold doesn't know it, but I already know, no one coughs up blood if they're "fine") her off, taking her away, once again, from the one she loves. No. I'm not bitter. Ask me the last time I've been to church. More often than I'd like. Enough to know that this God isn't going to forgive me, no matter how long I stand in front of the graves of the ones Harold made me get rid of, little half developed infants. Blue. Cold. Not human, no, not yet, the only thing they were was "bad for business." I paid for the grave markers myself, though the ground underneath them holds nothing of mine. These "things" were long ago washed out of the gutter by rain, or snacked upon by the city dogs. Do I grieve for my lost ones? Did I cry to see the bloody rags in which they were gingerly carried out? No. We Never Cry. I wasn't sorrowful; I had no attachment to them. Someone could have though, someone might have loved them. Lost potential, the bane of every good businessman's existence. So where does Christian fit into all of this? Honestly, he doesn't. If I could have changed things. If I could have changed things, my world as I know it would disappear. But If I could change Christian's fate, he would have listened to his father and never come to Montmarte. And he wouldn't be continuously writing.  
  
A/N: Wow. That was good. No, I'm not conceited. Not humble old me. But I was impressed. Maybe it's the fact that it's 2:00 in the morning, my contacts are all dry and irritating, I'm tired, but I still want to finish Carl Sagan's "Pale Blue Dot" and "Tess of D'Urbervilles" (which I just started) before morning, but I am impressed. Maybe you should review me and tell me that maybe my stories would be better if my Author's Notes were so long winded, and if I didn't insist on writing them when all God-Fearing creatures should be asleep (but then, I'm an atheist, couldn't you tell?). Ok, Carl Sagan's ghost is calling me. "Woooo. Marcel-la, Marcella, woooo.read my book, then you'll be smarrrrtttt.." 


End file.
